


At the Bottom of the Heart

by sensitivefruit



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Crying, Depression, Flogging, Frottage, Hair Pulling, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Post-Timeskip, Romance, Sex, Violations of the Geneva Convention, Whipping, Whump, Wound Cleaning, ferdinand von aegir is an idiot, ferdinand von aegir whump, good boyfriend hubert von vestra, hubert gives very good aftercare, i can make whipping romantic and i promise you i've done that here, masochist ferdinand, pain bottom ferdinand, pain top hubert, somewhat happy ending, use of a whipping post, very slight mention of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-28 21:34:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30145908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivefruit/pseuds/sensitivefruit
Summary: Ferdinand was supposed to marry a noble woman of good breeding and have three children and manage the dukedom and advise on matters of justice and state in boring Imperial council meetings. Instead, he spends his days on muddy battlefields, stripped of his title, scared out of his mind, participating in war crimes and yearning to be ground into dust by a man he isn't even sure particularly likes him.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 13
Kudos: 84





	At the Bottom of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> AKA: "Ferdinand Von Aegir is Stressed About War Crimes." Or: "Ferdinand struggles with depression and masochism, Hubert helps him get his shit together". It bothered me how well Black Eagles Ferdinand canonically adapts to what happens, I don't think he would really be able to do that given who he is pre-timeskip (an insufferable, delusional, high-minded little shit...). Or at least, it would be a hell of a journey, a real fucking process, to get to who he seems to be post-timeskip. I took a stab at a little bit of that process here.
> 
> I was also very inspired by [ drosera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drosera/pseuds/drosera)'s incredibly fucking excellent fic [ "Penance"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24120439) and you should immediately read it if you haven't already. After I read it (and scraped myself off the floor) I wondered what it would be like if Ferdinand was instead ill-prepared, and had to administer a lashing when he himself had never experienced anything like it. That got all jumbled up with my feelings above and here we are. 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE Ferdinand canonically does use contractions when speaking especially when he's under duress (in his Byleth C support convo when he sees the demonic beasts, he does!)

* * *

_"At the bottom of the heart of every human being, from earliest infancy until the tomb, there is something that goes on indomitably expecting, in the teeth of all experience of crimes committed, suffered, and witnessed, that good and not evil will be done to him. It is this above all that is sacred in every human being." - Simone Weil_

* * *

Ferdinand Von Aegir is in terrible condition, and the worst part of all is he knows it.

Knighthood, nobility and war are nothing like he thought they would be, nothing at all like any dashing tale or high-minded story, so now it is clear how stupid he really is. He cannot help but feel he was raised for something else, surely it cannot have been this, the whole time, for which he was intended. He does not know why he cannot adapt, but the brute fact remains. He sees it in some of the others too; Bernadetta, Linhardt, even Caspar, though he tries to hide it. All of them have been raised for war, and all of them try to be brave, but it turns out that it was mostly lies their parents told and not of all of them can stomach the truth.

Ferdinand's own silly fantasies about war and conquest gnaw at him, his own foolishness unthinkable, unbearable. He is tormented by the memory of it. He should let it go, seeing as he cannot change it, but he cannot do that either. His own embarassment and misery keep him up at night. Sometimes he does not sleep for days.

Edelgard notices his deteriorating condition, his lackluster presence, his haunted gaze and tired eyes. She takes pity on him, takes care not to overburden him with too many tasks too far outside of his expertise, and he is grateful. Yet her shrewd gaze pierces his heart and sees that it is quailing. Ferdinand knows now. Hubert was right, all those years ago. He is her inferior; he will never be her equal. When Hubert meets his eyes in imperial cabinet meetings, he thinks that this must be what Hubert is thinking. _I told you so_. Right, unquestionably right, finally, after all these years.

Hubert has been a constant, at least. Hubert seems to have understood from the beginning what would be asked of him, had the measure of the situation from the time he was in knee socks. Ferdinand is jealous of him now, ferociously, hopelessly jealous. They never talk about it anymore, they never discuss it like they used to back at the Monastary. Hubert never brings it up, and Ferdinand does not trust his hold on himself enough to want to broach the subject either, not even when they begin their ill-advised dalliances, not even when Ferdinand starts to need rougher and rougher stimulation to find any release at all, when his eyes are suspiciously wet afterwards.

But if Ferdinand had to bet, he would wager that Hubert already has the measure of him.

He can hardly expect Hubert not to notice what is right in front of him. The way Ferdinand says less and less. The way he shudders and whines if Hubert rakes his nails down the back of Ferdinand's thigh, if he twists Ferdinand's arm painfully behind his back as he fucks him, if he bites the juncture of his neck and shoulder hard enough to leave a toothmarked bruise for days. Hubert is a very perceptive man. Hubert cannot have missed it, the way Ferdinand's breath quickens if Hubert so much as moves a hand near Ferdinand's throat, the way a sharp-enough slap or a tight fist in his hair is more and more what takes him over the edge.

Hubert doesn't remark on it, but he never witholds pain or rough treatment. That should be enough. Hubert has his focus elsewhere, Hubert owes Ferdinand nothing, an irrefutable fact that Hubert never tires of reiterating when Ferdinand annoys him, which is often. Ferdinand cannot tell how much he really means it, but he thinks he means it some.

Ferdinand cannot ask for more than that, more than this.

Usually, it feels acceptable to ask for something he wants -- or at least it had felt that way back when it started. But maybe it was only ever because the things he wanted back then were simpler, the kinds of things one need not blush to admit, the kinds of things one could write home about.

The problem is that this, now, is not who Ferdinand is supposed to be, one more disappointment on a long list of disappointments. Ferdinand was supposed to marry a noble woman of good breeding and have three children and manage the dukedom and advise on matters of justice and state in boring Imperial council meetings. Instead, he spends his days on muddy battlefields, stripped of his title, scared out of his mind, participating in war crimes and yearning to be ground into dust by a man he isn't even sure particularly likes him.

War and fear make Ferdinand's mind slow and muddled, his judgement poor. When he lies in bed unable to sleep he tries hard to think, desperate for some way out of his -- their -- predicament, and he feels the gears in his addled brain grinding and groaning with effort, like the screech of some horrible, misused machine. Sometimes it makes him want to scream; mostly it makes him want to cry, which he often does.

Everything happens in a fog now, and every day is the same. Every morning he hopes for a reprive, hopes that this will be the day he wakes up with his mind clear and bright like it used to be, feel that old zest for life, that old desire to rise to the challenge. Every day he feels instead a kind of slow suffocation, as if he is being drained of everything he is or used to be. Every day he yearns for things to be well, and every day things are not well, and his stupid yearning heart is crushed again.

Edelgard has always understood both war and people better than Ferdinand. Ferdinand thinks that might be why she starts assigning him the supervision of punishments for insubordinate mercenaries and would-be deserters. Ferdinand understands clearly the message she is sending him, and he has to admire her for it even now, if nothing else the depth of her attention to detail is truly astounding.

The work requires little thought, but Ferdinand is not made for it and they all know it; when Edelgard asks him to report on this in the council meetings, he offers only the vaguest information, struggling to meet her gaze directly. In those moments, he wishes he were anywhere but there, anywhere at all. The depth of this longing surprises him sometimes, his view of it almost academic; how strange it is, to feel that instead of sitting here in this comfortable chair in this opulent drawing room discussing council matters it would be to some extent preferable to have already died.

Once when he met Hubert's eyes instead he thought Hubert looked embrassed for him, and well he might, since Hubert would not shrink from any task her Majesty requested. Some part of him still feels Hubert is wrong in this -- and yet he cannot quite remember why, what he used to say when they talked about it, he struggles even to recall --

"Ferdinand, are you listening to me?" Edelgard's voice cuts through his miserable reverie.

"Of course, your Majesty," he swallows, frantically replaying her words in his mind. "And, as you say, it is entirely appropriate to make a particular example of the insubordinate members of the Empire Magic Corps, given their strategic importance. I have made a note of this now," he adds, and looks down at his parchment to find that indeed he already has, his body an automaton, taking down everything she says even when his mind is elsewhere.

It must be good training, or good breeding, but Ferdinand does not even feel relief at his own competence anymore. There is no reprieve, for there is nothing that does not engender anxiety now.

"You will personally administer the sentence to Captain Anscome. Do I make myself clear?"

"Of course," he says resolutely, meeting her eyes this time.

"Excellent," she nods. "That will be all for this evening."

The council members, now dismissed, begin to gather their belongings. Only then does Ferdinand look down to see the sentence he will have to carry out, written on his note sheaf.

Forty lashes.

***

Ferdinand comes to Hubert's chambers after supper, ostensibly to discuss the matters of the day. They do manage some initial discussion, but Ferdinand is terribly distracted, even moreso than usual, by Edelgard's request. It isn't like meeting an equal in battle, triumphing over him. It isn't the same at all. And when he was growing up, it had been considered fine -- even good! -- for generals and captains to offer input into matters of tactics.

He isn't even sure Anscome did anything all that wrong, certainly not wrong enough to merit forty lashes, and these decisions are properly supposed to be made by military tribunal or a court and decided according to martial law, not handed down arbitrarily on the whim of a single person who has appointed themselves the sole incarnation of justice, and ---

He hears Hubert sigh.

Ferdinand realises Hubert has had to repeat the same sentence three times and is now giving him a horribly knowing sideways look.

"Sorry," Ferdinand says quickly, cringing, "I'm just tired, I need sleep, it's nothing, I--"

"You are struggling with her Majesty's request," Hubert says, his voice completely neutral.

"I.... yes," Ferdinand slumps a little, defeated already.

"Do you think yourself above it?" Hubert asks mildly.

"No!" Ferdinand sits up again immediately, chagrined that Hubert thinks so little of him. "No, I know such things must be done, it is part of the discipline required in any army, and I am not yet so feckless and depleted as to order men to do that which I will not do myself," he snaps. He is angry, he realises. It might be the clearest emotion he has felt in weeks.

"Then what's the problem?" Hubert asks, looking at him carefully with those keen eyes in the firelight. "Never done it before?"

"I have," Ferdinand says defensively, wondering if Hubert truly thinks him so cosseted and weak of spirit as to be unable to administer a simple flogging. "It is expected of nobility serving in high military office. But that is not the point at all -- how many times now have you seen me kill on the battlefield in increasingly desperate and unorthodox ways? It is hardly proceeding like a military textbook out there, in case that has escaped your notice!" His voice cracks over the words, but it cannot be helped anymore. "You think I would baulk at using a new implement? Please do not insult me," he says, incensed at it all, especially incensed by how pathetic he sounds, how petulant, his voice thin and reedy.

"So then what is it?" Hubert presses, not getting dragged into Ferdinand's emotional detour.

Ferdinand hesitates.

 _Is this right?_ Ferdinand wants to ask him. _Do you think this is right? Are we doing right here, in this war? Is our cause just, are our means defensible?_ But he doesn't ask, because to Hubert this is all abstraction, he has no patience for it nor for Ferdinand when he asks, and besides all of that Ferdinand already knows what Hubert will say. Instead, he flounders a little, and in his fog of misery and his lack of a better strategy, he tells Hubert the truth.

"I don't want to," he croaks. "It makes me feel sick."

"Why?" Hubert asks, softly, gently, perhaps more gently than Ferdinand has ever heard him.

"I don't agree with Anscome's sentence," he admits.

Hubert sighs, taking off his reading glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose unhappily.

"This again," he says, wearily. "I thought we disposed of this discussion. She is your better. You take orders from her, Ferdinand. She does not tolerate insubordination, not from you and certainly not from some mercenary captain."

"He only questioned Linhardt's tactics given the terrain at hand! He did not even attempt to disobey!" Ferdinand argues back purely from reflex, an old habit, not fully sure why he still bothers when he knows Hubert will never agree.

"So when you told Lady Edelgard that she was, and I quote, 'entirely correct' in this course of action, you lied to her," Hubert says, arching an eyebrow.

Ferdinand sets his mouth in a line. "She is correct for her purposes, that is not a lie. And I will carry out her orders. It is my own business if I do not agree."

"So then why hesitate? It's only two sets of twenty. Space them out over two days --"

"--I know how to do it," Ferdinand snaps, interrupting him.

"So do it! Stop wasting my time with this! Goddess, Ferdinand, you would think you'd never taken ten yourself or something."

Ferdinand chokes and swallows. Hubert stares at him in disbelief.

"What, never?"

Ferdinand says nothing.

"Not even with a switch?" Hubert asks, still unable to believe it.

Ferdinand shakes his head, mute.

"Ah, I see," Hubert's lip curls, the earlier softness evaporating. "Had a whipping boy, did you?"

"That is the custom," Ferdinand says stiffly, and Hubert snorts.

"No wonder you don't want to dish it out," he says, an odd mixture of derision and fondness in his voice.

A strange feeling uncurls in Ferdinand's chest, a tender, reaching feeling, as if something inside him is extending itself outwards, halfway to something, seen and yet not cast aside. He meets Hubert's eyes and nods.

"Come here," Hubert sighs, motioning Ferdinand over to him. Ferdinand rises and goes to him, standing in front of his chair, looking down at Hubert. His face is serious. The dark lines of Hubert's brow and jaw are beautiful in the firelight.

"Kiss me," Hubert says.

Ferdinand leans down to rest his hands on the plush, embroidered arms of the high-backed chair and brings his lips to Hubert's, kissing him ardently.

Hubert kisses him back, sliding his tongue into Ferdinand's mouth. Then, he buries one hand in Ferdinand's hair, takes a fistful and pulls hard -- a sharp shock of pain that has Ferdinand crying out in surprise. And then Ferdinand is moaning, throaty and shameless, when Hubert does it again. Hubert smiles up at him.

"You're hardly averse to taking pain yourself," Hubert says, which is the understatement of the century. Ferdindand pants, saying nothing, not sure what to say now that they're talking about this. "I've taken worse and survived, Ferdinand," Hubert says. "And so have you, on the battlefield. It is not so different."

"It _is_ ," Ferdinand insists, about to argue, but Hubert shushes him.

"I mean the sensation is no worse. The pain is no worse. You have borne it a thousand times over. You are not a boy anymore, Ferdinand. You could take twenty lashes in a sitting," Hubert says against his mouth, hot and knowing. Ferdinand gasps.

"Would you..." he starts, before he can think, and his own eyes widen as he realises what he is about to say, about to ask.

"I would," Hubert confirms, his gaze serious. Ferdinand does not know if Hubert means he would like to do it, to whip him, or only that he would be willing to do it because Ferdinand has asked, or almost asked, but then Hubert continues: "I know you can bear it. I think I could even make you like it."

That half-mocking, half-fond tone of voice is back now, and it makes Ferdinand want to howl and roll over like a dog, showing Hubert his belly. A shudder runs through him and he sways towards Hubert, allowing Hubert to pull him back down. Hubert tilts his head up to bite at Ferdinand's earlobe; for this, Ferdinand is always weak.

"Hubert..." he moans, his heart in his throat. He feels momentarily suspended in the pure sensation of Hubert's teeth on him, the closest he has felt to relaxation all day, although it seems strange to feel this over talk of Hubert whipping him, or -- well, not that strange, alright, but he hadn't thought of this discussion like that when it started, hadn't connected the threads as Hubert had, and now he wants it so much, and he wants it from Hubert only, and he thinks it means something, or at least he thinks that Hubert means to show him something there.

"Give me a day to arrange it," Hubert says, and then kisses him again, open-mouthed and deep. "I think you'll feel differently, afterwards. And I don't want to hear any more about this then, Ferdinand, I mean it. Do your duty."

Of course, Ferdinand realises, heart sinking.

"Of course," Ferdinand says.

***

This is what Ferdinand wants.

This is what Ferdinand wants. This is what Ferdinand wants, but when he sees the whipping post, he blanches. Hubert raises an eyebrow.

"It's -- ah. Rather crude, don't you think," Ferdinand says, aware that this sounds like nervous chatter. "And, I think, unneccessary. I'm not going to run away, and I really ought to be able to bear it without being... tied to that."

Hubert looks him over with a critical eye, assessing this suggestion as well as the general state of him. This does not help Ferdinand's nerves. He has to quash the silly instinct to flutter his eyelashes, to bite his lip under Hubert's gaze.

"When soldiers are whipped, they are tied to that," Hubert says, after a long moment. Ferdinand swallows.

"I... you're right. Yes," he says, deciding it is so. He knows he is still saying more words than he needs to, filling up the silence. He takes his shirt off and ties his hair up without being prompted, eyes darting back to the nine-tailed lash in Hubert's right hand when he's done. Hubert holds it loosely, and Ferdinand's straining ears pick out the sound every time the leather tails _thwip_ gently in the air.

He allows Hubert to tie his wrists to the post with the leather thong attached to it at the top.

"Put your hands on top of the post," Hubert says. Ferdinand does.

"Do you think you can be quiet?" Hubert asks, and he actually sounds curious, which is quite something. Usually, Hubert considers Ferdinand very predictable.

"Yes," Ferdinand says, a little braver than he feels.

"Hm," Hubert considers this. Hubert circles him once, assessing. Ferdinand does not breathe. He can feel the thrum of nervous energy in his own stomach like the wings of a bird, like the quiver of a rabbit's hind leg against the earth.

"I suggest you brace yourself," Hubert says quietly, and then the first one lands.

It is a stinging blow, and Ferdinand has to suppress a gasp. But the pain is not unbearable.

"Do it properly," Ferdinand says, loathing the words as he says them, ashamed that he is not sure whether Hubert respects him enough to give him the brunt of it.

"I am," Hubert says, the faintest hint of annoyance in his voice. "The first one is never that bad. Be quiet."

The next one lands criss-cross to the first; Hubert doesn't warn him it's coming, but Ferdinand hears the _whush_ of air before the strike and braces himself again. The third lands with a thwack, the pain more searing; the fourth makes Ferdinand flinch, but he does not cry out. The next stroke whistles a little and the pain is sharp on impact. Ferdinand's body jerks, but he does not cry out.

"That was five," Hubert says, his tone somewhat academic. "The pain will get worse from now."

"Stop coddling me," Ferdinand snaps, feeling venomous, emotional and confused. What is even the point of coddling him if the entire purpose of this exercise is to show him he can bear it, and can carry out Edelgard's wishes like a good little mindless vassal?

"Very well," Hubert says, in a tone that suggests he is choosing not to argue the premise with some effort.

The next strike sings through the air and lands dead center, punching Ferdinand's breath out of his chest in a rush. Already, he can tell that Hubert was right -- the pain is building into a harsh, steady throb now. Hubert gives him two more criss-crossing blows, the second of which jolts his body forward and might have broken skin, but Ferdinand is not sure and anyway it is over and he has gulped down the sound that wanted to escape him so it does not matter if the skin is broken or not.

Hubert steps closer, and Ferdinand tenses up even more. He wills himself to lower his shoulders, which have hunched up around his ears; he must be the very picture of indignity. But instead of striking him again, Hubert trails his fingers over the exposed nape of Ferdinand's neck, walking around to the front of the whipping post. His hand cradles Ferdinand's jaw, lifting his face gently, inspecting him -- for what, Ferdinand does not know.

Hubert runs the pad of his thumb gently over Ferdinand's lower lip.

"Is this how I'm to whip Anscome?" Ferdinand asks, panting and sneering a little, meeting Hubert's eyes defiantly.

Hubert's nostrils flare. "Saints, you're infuriating," he mutters under his breath. When he clears his throat and speaks again, his voice is sharp and authoritative.

"Ferdinand Von Aegir. For your _ceaseless insubordination_ , I believe you deserve these twenty lashes, and it is _my pleasure_ to give them to you. If you question my methods again, I will give you more than that, and in a manner you will not like so much. Brace yourself now."

Ferdinand does.

The next strike slashes straight across the middle of his back, hard and stinging. He gasps and falters and braces himself again, but not fast enough; his body jerks forward with the blow that follows. He does not cry out. That was number eight; he is not halfway yet. Hubert says nothing. Ferdinand grits his teeth and tenses his throat to kill any sound there on impact. His back is aflame now, and he shudders through the next stroke as it lands, and into the next after that, the pain building and cresting and building again like a rolling wave.

The eleventh stroke fizzes through the air and slices hot below his right shoulder -- and this time, Ferdinand cries out before he can stop himself.

" _There_ we go," Hubert huffs out a laugh. "I knew you could take it, but I didn't really think you could keep quiet."

"Fuck you," Ferdinand says, voice shaking with anger and misery, hating how little Hubert thinks of him still, hating even more that he's always _right_. And yet the combination of pain and derision is undeniably also affecting Ferdinand in that familiar strange inverted way, and either because of it or despite it all, he is starting to get hard.

"Ah, Ferdinand, you misunderstand me," Hubert says, warm and fond. Then he leans over Ferdinand's back, trailing a hand around the side of his body to stroke his chest, speaking softly into Ferdinand's ear. "I like it when you make noise." Ferdinand shudders.

Hubert steps back and slashes him again; the thwack is loud and wet and the pain is bursting. Ferdinand makes a strangled gasp, quashing any more than that in his throat. Hubert sighs a little, perhaps at the swallowed cry, perhaps at the sight of his work on Ferdinand's back.

"You think your men don't cry out when they're whipped? Ferdinand, please," Hubert scoffs. "I thought you said you'd done this before."

"I---" Ferdinand starts, then stops.

"Speak," Hubert says impatiently, striking again, number thirteen, sharp and brutal.

"I need to be better," Ferdinand gasps out, rocking forward, clutching the post.

"You need to _endure it_ ; any way will do," Hubert says.

"I am... trying..." Ferdinand says, gritting his teeth again as the pain blooms; that gash in his shoulder must have been deeper than he thought.

"You must know how impressive it is to take ten without making a sound," Hubert says, incredulity in his voice. "Surely you know how brave you are; Seiros knows you were always telling us so back at the Monastary. Do you really need me to say it now?"

"I'm not brave," Ferdinand whispers, mortified to admit it -- and Saints, is he tearing up? Now? And not from the lash, but the conversation?

"You are," Hubert says. "You always have been. And nothing you do here, with me, now, can change that."

The next time Hubert strikes him, Ferdinand wails.

"Gods, yes," Hubert says, voice thick with want, and Ferdinand wonders if Hubert is going to get hard from this too. It feels so good to hear Hubert so affected, to think that Hubert also gets off on this, turned on by the sound of Ferdinand in pain, just as turned on as Ferdinand is to receive it.

Hubert strikes him again, number fifteen landing with a resounding smack, and Ferdinand makes a long, low _"Uuuunh"_ sound as Hubert groans behind him.

Hubert comes closer and slides his palm around to the front of Ferdinand's trousers, feeling how hard he is -- and he is properly hard, now, hard enough to be shameless about canting his hips up into Hubert's hand, making them both shudder and moan with it.

"The rest of this is going to hurt," Hubert says, a half-whisper near the shell of his ear, and his tone makes it clear that it's about to get _much_ worse, and it makes Ferdinand wants to push his face into Hubert's face, to melt into him and fuse with him into one being forever.

"Give it to me," he hisses, rutting against Hubert's hand like a dog. Hubert moans and bites the soft lobe of Ferdinand's ear -- fuck, Ferdinand loves that every time, he never gets tired of it --

\-- then Hubert moves back and away, and not a half-second later the lash kisses Ferdinand's skin again, slicing in across the small of his back, making him jerk and cry out, louder now because it hurts more and because he knows Hubert wants it that way.

Hubert gives Ferdinand another one, criss-cross to the last, cutting into him again, the pain bright and clear; Ferdinand gives Hubert an anguished cry in return, hands trembling atop the whipping post. He sways with the impact, and he does not even know if he has leant into or away from the blow, mind and body perfectly suspended between desire and instinct.

"I could watch you take it forever like this," Hubert says, slashing him again, number seventeen, only three more to come, but Ferdinand understands now that they will be excruciating.

The eighteenth stroke lands, harrowing sharp, a striped brand across the welts and flayed skin, his body falling forward, testing his white-knuckled grip on the post, crying out in anguish, pure and simple, everything reduced to the pain itself at last, and he is still crying over it when the nineteenth follows fast and keen, the pain ferocious, making him arc up in surprise, wringing the breath out of him.

The lash comes shrieking through the air one last time, the blow fierce and searing, savage in its intensity, biting into him, and the pain is explosive, like every nerve ending in his back is on fire, and Ferdinand's voice rises to a yell with the sensation, his whole body quaking, wracked with with it, desperately clutching the top of the post, hands trembling as he holds himself upright against it while he shakes through the pain.

"So good, you did so well," Hubert murmurs, and there might be real warmth and admiration in his voice, though it sounds faint to Ferdinand's ears. Ferdinand wants to close his eyes and drift away, wants to feel himself drowning in it, and he might as well be, he's crying anyway; the whipping post is the only thing keeping him upright now, and by some strange instinct he is pressing his face against it, his chest, his groin, he's so hard in his trousers, and fuck, it feels right, it feels good, the solid, smooth wooden column against his aching erection.

"Nnnh---- _ahh_ \---" Ferdinand moans, unable to help himself, unable to restrain himself from what he is clearly about to do and then he's doing it, rubbing himself off against the whipping post, the unyeilding pressure incredible, and ---

"Oh, fuck," Hubert groans, realising what Ferdinand is doing now, but Ferdinand can barely register it, he feels like he's floating, shameless, hot everywhere, panting, crying, rutting against the post, trembling like a wild rabbit, whining like a dog in heat, half-mad and out of himself, agrestal, bestial, desperate to come, so close, the confines of the fabric making everything worse and then better and then worse again, slick with precum, the pressure building and he rocks his hips up again once, twice, seeking that friction, grinding hard, chasing it even though it hurts, everything hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts exactly _right_ and then he's coming, clinging to the post as he rides it out, mouth open, eyes tight shut, body melting into nothing, hot and vital and necessary and perfect.

He breathes deeply when it's over, hears Hubert swearing again behind him and huffs out a weak little laugh in response -- yes, quite, indeed, he would say, had he the breath to say it. Ah, what a mess.

Hubert comes up alongside him and unties him from the post, at which point Ferdinand’s knees buckle and he slides down to the ground, unable to stand and unwilling to care about it. He leans his cheek against the smooth surface of the post and breathes in the cool air for what feels like the first time.

He is a little surprised when Hubert sits down next to him on the sandy grit floor, and when he cracks one eye open to investigate this development he finds Hubert peering at him, a flush on those usually pallid cheeks, and Hubert looks pleased, very pleased, almost in harmony with the world, which is an exceedingly rare and good look on him. Ferdinand yearns to kiss him but hasn't the energy; not just yet.

"That was very good," Hubert says, in case Ferdinand had missed it the first time. Ferdinand smiles at him, watery and genuine, and loves the way Hubert's eyes crinkle when he smiles back.

Ferdinand closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the post, too boneless to move. When he opens his eyes again he sees Hubert still looking at him intently. Ferdinand looks at him and tilts his head, the universal signal that means _go on, say it, whatever it is_.

"I will not do you the discourtesy of asking if you wish me to heal you," Hubert says.

"Thank you," Ferdinand sighs, finding his voice again.

"But I hope that you will allow me to tend to them, for you," Hubert continues, not quite asking. Ferdinand nods.

Hubert produces antiseptic and gauze from somewhere and shifts behind him, inspecting the damage. It mustn't be too bad, he doesn't click his tongue or apologise, which is good. Ferdinand melts all over again at the touch when Hubert starts applying the antiseptic ointment, tending to him carefully, methodically. It stings a bit, but it isn't too bad. Ferdinand rests his head against the post and closes his eyes.

At one point Hubert sweeps some whisps of hair that have escaped away from the nape of Ferdinand's neck, so gentle that it makes Ferdinand sigh again. Hubert carefully applies strips of gauze to the broken skin, which doesn't feel particularly nice, but is probably necessary. He inspects Ferdinand's sides, his torso, his shoulders, assessing the full extent of it, taking inventory. The left side passes muster, but that slicing blow on the right shoulder must have been deep after all, and Hubert shifts around to sit at Ferdinand's side, so he can see it better.

Ferdinand opens his eyes again, taking inventory right back. Hubert hasn't noticed him looking, he's focusing on the gash, which does lick a little too high up the muscle of the shoulder for comfort, but Ferdinand doesn't mind. Hubert is frowning with concentration, assessing the wound, perhaps it might need stitches or something, Ferdinand is not sure. He almost hopes it does need stitches, that would be good too.

Ferdinand lets his own gaze roam over Hubert, whose earlier blush has mostly faded now. He looks serene again, buttoned back up, almost, except---

“You’re ..." Ferdinand says tilting his chin up to indicate the obvious arousal between Hubert’s legs.

“It will keep,” Hubert says, not looking up, unconcerned.

“No, I — I didn’t know you also liked it,” Ferdinand says, feeling shy.

“Idiot,” Hubert says fondly, slanting a look at him out of the corner of his eyes just for a moment. “Who wouldn’t?"

Hubert is concentrating intently now, apparently having decided that stitches are not needed and so just applying the ointment with meticulous care, and Ferdinand finds he can't stop himself from reaching back and putting his hand in Hubert's lap as he tends to him, pawing at Hubert, rubbing him through his trousers, feeling a kind of warm and desperate affection -- not the usual desperation for Hubert's attention but rather an urgent need for Hubert to know how much he appreciates this, how good Hubert has made him feel.

He can't keep a hold on himself: he undoes the buttons of Hubert's trousers without asking and sticks his hand inside, feeling the hot, smooth skin there, the hard length of his cock, making him suck in a sharp breath at the contact. He draws Hubert out, stroking him with his fingertips, while Hubert determinedly continues to tend to the shoulder wound, now applying the gauze.

"If you keep doing that, you'll make a mess," Hubert says, voice strained, the edge of an admonishment.

"Oh, I can fix that," Ferdinand says breathlessly, turning to look at him, and now that the gauze has been applied he can do what he's been really wanting to: he leans down and puts his face in Hubert's lap and takes his cock into his mouth, swallowing him whole, all the way right down in one greedy effort, and if he could get him deeper still then he would do it, would take yet more of him, whatever was there to take.

Hubert is surprised by this, he can tell by the little bitten-off noise he makes, and the knowledge of that alone sends a hot shock of pleasure through him. Hubert brings one hand to the back of Ferdinand's head and undoes the tie in his hair so he can run his fingers through it as Ferdinand takes him down, making him moan. Hubert isn't going to last very long; Ferdinand considers this a good thing, he wants to bring Hubert to orgasm immediately, every time, and this time it looks like it's going to be soon, very soon, maybe so soon that he can even afford to delay it a bit, pulling back and licking a long stripe up Hubert's cock, then laving his tongue over the head, pink and wet, looking up at him, moaning himself when he finds Hubert looking right back, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with lust.

Ferdinand wants to stick out his tongue and have Hubert jerk off into his open mouth, or else he'd like it if Hubert came on his face, but he did promise there would be no mess, and anyway, it's just as tempting to take all of him right down again, deep into his throat, and this time Hubert cries out when he does it, keening just a little, hips stuttering, and Ferdinand sucks harder, swallowing around the head of his cock, working his throat around him, wanting to bring him over the edge, it won't take much, just a little more, and then Hubert's fingers tighten in his hair and he's coming and Ferdinand swallows everything greedily down with a fierce possessiveness because he's earned it.

He looks up to see Hubert's head thrown back in pleasure and it's so incredibly, unbelievably satisfying to know he did that, he thinks if he were younger and things were better he might already be hard again, but it's alright that he isn't, it's good enough this way anyhow.

He sits up and kisses Hubert, who kisses him back, first on the mouth an then on the side of his face, sweetly, nuzzling him just a little, rubbing his hands up the sides of Ferdinand's bare arms to warm him up in the cool air. It is so very un-Hubert-like that Ferdinand can hardly take it in.

"How do you feel?" Hubert asks.

"Good," Ferdinand says. "Better," Ferdinand says.

***

It's not that he feels so much better, actually, the next morning, even though he wakes up in Hubert's bed and that is different and good and something at least.

"You know I thought you'd never ask me for it," Hubert says, as they get dressed on opposite sides of the bed.

"I only almost-asked, you let me off the hook," Ferdinand acknowledges gratefully.

"You got closer than I thought you would," Hubert says, turning to face him. His eyes are warmer than Ferdinand thought they were, than he thought they would be. "You're stronger than you think." Ferdinand tries not to blush too much at this, but he is pleased, and he doesn't mind showing it.

Huberts walks him back to his room, which Ferdinand finds very dashing and says so.

He opens his schedule for the day and sighs when he sees the task before him. He wants to fall to the floor, or at least slouch over in defeat, feeling that sad combination of misery and panic rising like usual, the beginnings of the now-familiar sluggishness. Hubert doesn't need to ask what the problem is.

"You can do this," Hubert says.

"I know," Ferdinand says, swallowing, looking up at him. "But I still don't want to."

Hubert makes a little "hm" noise in his throat. There is something in his eyes that he does not say. He does not comment further before he leaves to attend to his own responsibilities. 

Ferdinand steels himself and does the task before him. He administers the day's martial discipline despite his revulsion, and oversees the remainder of the affairs and then before the evening's council meeting he knocks on the door to Edelgard's study and decides that he has to at least try to improve the situation. He knows this means most likely enduring a bit of a dressing down. But he finds that he cannot really care about that anymore. The only positive aspect of the generally catastrophic dead-weight drowning feeling is how much less he cares about other things that, all things considered, do not really matter.

After the meeting he finds that he is drained completely; not in the usual, fuzzed-out fog of indecision but in a fuller, bone-deep way, a way he has not felt in months. He actually has a headache, he realises, and his back still hurts, of course, and he will have to find Hubert to have him change the gauze, though he holds a little hope that Hubert will find him before he needs to go looking.

He debates whether to skip the evening's meeting completely, wrestling with himself over it until he passes Linhardt in the hallway and finds himself asking him to tell the others he's not feeling well and needs to lie down. Linhardt gives him a baleful, jealous look, but agrees, leaving Ferdinand to make his way carefully back to his room.

He manages to take off his coat and boots before succumbing to exhaustion, falling asleep fully clothed and face-down on the duvet. Mercifully, for the first time in a long time, he does not dream of anything at all.

When he wakes up, he finds Hubert sitting next to his bed, reading. Ferdinand blinks to make sure he is not seeing things, making a soft little noise of surprise in his throat before he can stop himself.

"Yes, I'm here," Hubert says mildly, in a tone that says _don't push it_.

"Yes, you are," Ferdinand says, in a tone that says _I won't, for now_.

"You've been out for a while," Hubert remarks, changing the tone a little, to business. Ferdinand frowns.

"Come here," he says, patting the empty space on the bed next to him. Hubert hesitates for a moment. "Come on," Ferdinand says, wheedling a bit, not feeling too embarassed to do it.

Hubert bends down to remove his shoes. Then he stands up and approaches the bed stiffly, still evidently hesitant, which Ferdinand understands even though he is not quite sure how he knows where the fault lines are, just that he knows them. Slowly, gingerly, Hubert lies down next to him, also on his front, mirroring Ferdinand's position. He looks almost shy. Ferdinand would never have believed that, had he not seen it with his own eyes.

"So you have been relieved of those duties," Hubert says carefully.

"I didn't ask to be," Ferdinand says quickly, wanting Hubert to understand that very clearly before he goes on.

"Oh no? How did you manage it, then," Hubert asks, interest piqued.

"I met with her and outlined my detailed plans for the formation and administration of martial courts to handle sentencing for infractions including but not limited to insubordination, as well as my adjoining proposal for a new statute of martial law to which we might refer while--- what!" he says, seeing Hubert's mouth trembling, his shoulders shaking, and suddenly Hubert rolls over and cracks up into peals of laughter. He laughs for a long time, his whole body heaving with mirth, in fact Ferdinand has never seen him laugh this hard at anything and certainly not at something he did, but he feels like this is fond laughter, he doesn't think Hubert is laughing at him, though the longer it goes on it does start to feel a little ---

"Sorry!" Hubert gasps. "I'm sorry, that's just.... incredible."

"Yes, alright," Ferdinand says crossly.

"No!" Hubert says, still loose with laughter. "You handled it perfectly. She reassigned you instantly, no?"

"She did," Ferdinand says grumpily. "Back on the tactics council, like before, Lorenz will be delighted at least, he says _you_ are very boring in meetings."

"You really are quite something," Hubert says fondly, making Ferdinand's ire evaporate instantly.

Hubert sighs, finally settling down after the laughing fit. Ferdinand closes his eyes and enjoys lying next to him, breathing deep, soft, no longer able to assign himself somewhere to go, knowing now that he needs to rest, that he has needed to rest without doing it for far too long.

"How are you feeling?" Hubert asks after a while, and Ferdinand opens his eyes to talk. He knows he means his back, the wounds.

"Fine," he says, making to sit up a bit, and then wincing in pain. Hubert gives him a knowing looking. "It hurts, obviously," Ferdinand clarifies, "but I find it ...acceptable." He has deliberately chosen a very Hubert-like word, and he doesn't think Hubert fails to notice.

"Very stoic," Hubert says, eyes bright, appraising.

"Not really," Ferdinand says, "I asked for these, at least. And they... ah, remind me.... of you."

"Oh," Hubert says, trying and failing to conceal a smile. "Well," Hubert says, one of his hands making its way up to Ferdinand's shoulder, covered only in his thin linen shirt. "I'll need to reapply the ointment and gauze," he says, his tone studiously neutral.

"I know," Ferdinand says.

"It might hurt," Hubert says, and then he carefully presses down on the gash in Ferdinand's shoulder with the tip of one meticulous finger. Ferdinand gasps.

"Yes," Ferdinand moans, "I know," he says.

"Are you going to be this shameless from now on?" Hubert asks, and he sounds very interested.

"Are you?" Ferdinand asks, feeling impertinent, enjoying the feeling. Hubert snorts, apparently deciding discretion is the better part of valor right at that particular moment.

"Stay here," Hubert says, moving to get the medical supplies. He is out of vision for a moment before he asks. "And how are you otherwise?"

"Tired," Ferdinand says, meaning worn out, meaning ground down. "And.... things have not been... are not... good," he admits, more painful than the gash in his shoulder. Hubert makes the barest noise of acknowledgement, communicating nothing other than having heard him, leaving the path open for Ferdinand to say more if he wants to. "I am trying to make them better," he says. "But I think it might take a while." He doesn't know how to fit all of it together, how to commit to a process that he feels in his bones will be slow when he also knows he might die any day, any time. He can feel himself tearing up about it, but that does not seem like it can be helped.

Hubert sits back down beside him after a moment, returning to the bed with the supplies.

"It was never going to be easy," Hubert says, looking at him tenderly.

"I guess not," Ferdinand says, sounding a little watery.

It's moments like these that he understands why whatever it is at the bottom of his heart that chose Hubert made that choice, because Hubert doesn't say something stupid like "It'll be alright" or "You'll figure it out" or even "You have time". Hubert doesn't deal in moronic lies with people he cares about, it's one of his best traits.

"If you sit up, I can do this for you," Hubert says, gesturing with the roll of gauze, the tin of antiseptic.

"Thank you," Ferdinand says, pausing for a moment before he girds himself for the movement.

"Don't mention it," Hubert says softly, eyes shining.

***

**Author's Note:**

> THEYRE SOFT BOYS YOUR HONOUR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> Ok well so Ferdinand is a COMPLETELY unreliable narrator for a solid 2/3rds of this fic. What can you do. Depression amirite. Big time. 
> 
> Also I have never been flogged but I’ve been hit with other things so I roughly know how that works and also, *insufferable nerd voice* I WATCHED A VIDEO (also i read a paper: http://goriely.com/wp-content/uploads/2002-PRLwhip-1.pdf ) 
> 
> Hi I'm on twitter I'm @gonnabemessy I have a lot of brain rot. I would love it very much if you leave a comment or kudos <3


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